Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [110]
He saw the humor was long gone from her face now. There was obvious concern in her eyes but he thought there was also sadness. Maybe she understood, too, how well he was boxed in.
“The alternative is to prove that Joey Marks or one of his people planted the gun because they somehow knew Luke Goshen was an agent and needed to discredit him. Though that’s the likely truth, it’s a harder road to follow. It’s easier for Samuels just to throw the mud on me.”
He looked down at his half-finished dinner and put his knife and fork on the plate. He couldn’t eat anymore. He took a long drink of wine and then kept the glass in his hand, ready.
“I think I’m in big trouble, Eleanor.”
The gravity of his situation was finally beginning to weigh on him. He’d been operating on his faith that the truth would win out and now clearly saw how little truth would have to do with the outcome. He looked up at her. Their eyes connected and he saw that she was about to cry. He tried to smile.
“Hey, I’ll think of something,” he said. “I might be riding a desk for the time being, but I’m not taking both oars out of the water. I’m going to figure this out.”
She nodded but her face still looked distraught.
“Harry, remember when you found me in the casino that first night and we went to the bar at Caesar’s and you tried to talk to me? Remember what you said about doing things differently if you had the chance to go back?”
“Yes, I remember.”
She wiped her eyes with her palms, before any tears could show.
“I have to tell you something.”
“You can tell me anything, Eleanor.”
“What I told you about me paying Quillen and the street tax and all of that…, there’s more to it.”
She looked at him with intensity now, trying to read his reaction before going further. But Bosch sat stone still and waited.
“When I first went to Vegas after getting out of Frontera, I didn’t have a place or a car and I didn’t know anyone. I just thought I’d give it a shot. You know, playing cards. And there was a girl I knew from Frontera. Her name was Patsy Quillen. She told me to look up her uncle — that was Terry Quillen — and that he’d probably stake me after he checked me out and saw me play. Patsy wrote him and gave me an introduction.”
Bosch sat silently, listening. He now had an idea where this was going but couldn’t figure out why she was telling him.
“So he staked me. I got the apartment and some money to play with. He never said anything about Joey Marks, though I should have known the money came from somewhere. It always does. Anyway, later, when he finally told me who had really staked me, he said I shouldn’t worry because the organization he worked for didn’t want me to pay the nut back. What they wanted was just the interest. Two hundred a week. The tax. I didn’t think I had a choice. I’d already taken the money. So I started paying. In the beginning it was tough. I didn’t have it a couple times and it was double the next week plus that week’s regular tax. You get behind and there’s no way out.”
She looked down at her hands and clasped them on the table.
“What did they make you do?” Bosch asked quietly, also averting his eyes.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” she said. “I was lucky…they knew about me. I mean, that I had been an agent. They figured they could use my skills, as dormant as they were. So they had me just watch people. Mostly in casinos. But there were a few times I followed them outside. Most of the time I didn’t even know exactly who they were or why they wanted the information, but I just watched, sometimes played at the same tables, and reported to Terry what the guy was winning or losing, who he was talking to, any nuances of his